My Sidewalk Friend

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Monday, November 26, 2018: Earlier this morning on my walk, I run into an elder woman I’ve seen twice before, her skin is the color of perfectly browned drop biscuit peaks, and her face is mapped with lines that tell the story of her life to anyone willing to stop and silently listen, read.

Each time, our paths crossin roughly the same spot, in front of a newly planned community a five minute walk from my house. Every time we meet, she has stepped down off the sidewalk to give deference to me. Me! Lowly whippersnapper by comparison and yet. The second time I stopped and chatted, she has virtually no English but I learned she’s from India. This morning, same thing: as we approach each other she steps down into the street fingering her prayer beads, her thick-soled sneakers and cable knit sweater an anachronism against the long black dress and striped apron she wears.

I stop again.Clasp my hands together as if in prayer and bow my head to her. She does the same. And then I step aside gesturing to her with both hands toward the sidewalk. She hesitates, her smile widening before she steps up onto the sidewalk, still fingering her beads, and walks on.

What is the prayershe utters walking down this suburban street in Northern California? Who is her family? Maybe a son or daughter bought one of the developer houses and moved her from her home in India? Does she have grands who don’t really understand grandma but are being taught to respect her and her deeply ensconced ways. The ones that caused her involuntary muscles to guide or down off the sidewalk when anyone else passes.

I walk on, not surprised by the tears in my throat which moved me to share this with you.

Oddly enough, a few minutes later, after spending the rest of my walk dictating this text, our paths cross again—and again in front of the developer houses. And this time I step down before she can. She smiles, steps down, too, so we briefly have dueling deference until she finally steps back up. I join her and we pantomime another conversation. She says again “India” and “no English” . I point to her prayer beads, indicating how beautiful they are. With their hands clasped she points up to the sky. Then she taps her knee and I tap my knee and we agree that walking is good for us. We part ways.

This time I don’t have tears stuck in my throat only a small prayer that I could speak her language/dialect so that next time we could actually chat.

I love that you were able to find out who she was but even if you hadn’t the story was beautiful. I believe that everyone crosses our path for a reason sometimes it’s just to remind us to be kind or that we are all human and equal. Years ago when I would walk from my house down to 5th avenue I would pass an old couple sitting on their steps. We would always smile and nod at one another until one day I saw her standing alone. She only spoke German with some broken English. He had died after 70 years of marriage and he was the one who went out into the world and she stayed home so in all this time had never really learned English.

I had to struggle trying to remember some of the German my mother had taught us as children. For about a year we struggled to connect in conversation and in the end, when she was gone, I hoped it was because she had gone to live with her sister in California. I knew she waited at her gate for me to pass by and though I never learned her name I missed her when she was gone. But our meetings reminded us each we existed and mattered.

Good morning, Anita, my dearest Cousin..As I took a few more moments to relax just before arising to start another busy day, I read your beautiful story! It reminded me of a poem I wrote years ago entitled, The Forgotten People-a poem about our elderly being shuned by our younger generation!! The story served it’s purpose in my 💓 in more ways than one! The fact that walking is good for the physical heart, was an eye-opener for me, to get back out there, & start back walking (I have been so caught up in serving others-mostly ‘Seasoned Citizens’, that I neclected my daily routine of walking, etc!) Your stories always motivate & inspire me! I thank God that we have ‘kindred’ spirits, when it comes to writing! God puts People in our pathway often! And sometimes it’s temporary, sometimes permanant sometimes short term, sometimes long, yet however long, it’s always for a reason!! We never know who we will meet along life’s ‘Path’ way! Thanks for sharing! The story made my day! Love to you, and your family, this Holiday Season!

About Anita Gail

Writer, visual artist and oral tradition storyteller, Anita Gail was born and raised in Albany, Georgia, living in the San Francisco Bay Area since 1985. As a 2018-19 Affiliate Artist at The Headlands Center for the Arts, she is in the query phase for her debut novel, Peach Seed Monkey. The story was a Novella semi-finalist in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition.

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Art Installation

Open House as 2018-19 Affiliate Artist at Headlands Center for the Arts: studio art installation based on scene: “Sunday Dinner” from Peach Seed Monkey, my debut novel—now in search of an agent. To view gallery: Click on photo above.